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Creative Writing

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Literature

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Travel

Solar Winds Are Whispering.


I feel like one day somebody will try to memoralise my journals but will struggle to decipher the letters. There is no time to print properly when your mind flickers faster than the movement of the pen.

Translation:

I don't know where you're supposed to store all of your memories. I feel like we leave them in our limbs, veins and they become the nostalgia of who we are. But what if you knew where your pain went, the places it slept. Maybe that is the secret to immortality, following pain home, terrifying it out of darkness, maybe that's how we survive.

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